Lunch Run
by maple-lake
Summary: She was in the mood for horizons and silly, idealistic thoughts. Her weakness. Her fortitude. AN:Even though I want to rail against the physically impossible...


_It was a carnival of pain, but he loved each stride because running distilled him to his essence and the heat hastened this distillation._

- **James Tabor, "The Runner"**

Her left foot rested on the seat of her chair as she leaned over to pull the shoelace of her battered gym shoe tighter. The sound created by the friction frayed the edges of the silence around her. She loved this time of day.

The middle of the day was one of the best times to be in the diagnostics office. One of the best times to be on the whole floor, actually. Most of the doctors were either out to lunch or hidden away in their offices. Most patients were, by that time of day, faithfully keeping their place in the "system," waiting to be admitted, waiting to be taken to the exam room, waiting for their lunching doctors. Waiting.

She dug through the top drawer of her desk, searching for the thing that had detoured her back to the office. Triumphantly, she pulled out a thick, worn hair band. She pulled her hair back haphazardly, eyes cast on the floor unseeing as she mentally figured out which route she'd have time for. She had been hoping to see the water – had been needing to, actually. She was in the mood for horizons and silly, idealistic thoughts. Her weakness. Her fortitude.

Usually, meaning when they weren't in the middle of a pressing case, Cameron would take lunchtime to hang out with her coworkers. Her friends. The who and where often depended on the minutest of life's details – schedules, lunch lines, even the cafeteria menu. There was only one constant: House was never involved.

On days when House was being exceptionally self-destructive – or even just overly destructive in general – she would hole up with Wilson in his office. They'd get Thai food delivered – she would surreptitiously wait outside the hospital entrance to intercept the food, then sneak it up, her House Radar on high alert – and then they'd analyze the central figure of their lives, their fatally flawed, would-be antihero.

"This is new. I don't remember seeing it in the dress code." The voice was unexpected and out of place for this time of day. It was true that every inch of the office had long ago been claimed by him – His Territory – however this hour had always been a golden reprieve, a time when she could feel the ownership shift, feel the sliding of boundaries.

During case-less weeks she'd go out with Chase or Forman – more often than not both of them – to the cafeteria, depending on the menu, or the small Irish pub down the street that they'd christened as their own. Chase would hit on the waitresses while she needled Foreman for information on his latest Girl of the Week. The conversation was always light, the mood exhaustingly guarded – yet there was always that vibe of the common understanding of shared experiences, that hint of the notion that they were special because they were part of something special. Gregory House's team. His people. His.

That week, however, she had no plans for lunch with Wilson, had opted out of the pub. In fact, it had been some time since she and Wilson had had a clandestine Thai meeting. It seemed even longer than that since things had felt normal at all.

Saying nothing, not even glancing at him, she walked out of the room toward the elevator. He followed her, and for a moment she wanted to say something – to speak with him like normal people. Student to teacher. Woman to man. She was taken aback not by his curiosity, but by his follow-through – delicately, tentatively open.

When the elevator arrived, she quickly stepped in, pushing the button for the first floor. He glanced sideways at her selection, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the handlebar as he leaned back against the elevator wall. "Gym is on the lower level," he said. There it was again. The invitation, the interest. It no longer felt like prying for the sake of prying, and that troubled her. Perhaps she hated change just as much as he did after all.

"I'm not going to the gym." Her eyes darted up to his of their own volition and he held them, gripped them. What? What was he looking for?

She had taken to running during lunch. Alone. It had started rather unexpectedly when her treadmill had broken for the umpteenth and final time. At first, she had planned to use the hospital gym – only half the staff seemed to have the same idea, and the treadmills were all taken by the time she'd gotten there. She'd been lucky it was a beautiful, cool day outside.

She loved to run. Some people had bikes, some did yoga. Some liked to climb mountains, some liked to beat themselves up in the boxing ring or hockey rink. But running was _her_ thing. When her husband had been too sick to get out of bed, she'd run miles and miles every morning – miles away from him, miles for him, miles to him. They'd all blurred together until, just when she thought she had finally lost her sanity, she found herself again.

They said nothing more to each other and eventually the doors opened. He trailed her to the exit, watched her as she left the building. His eyes burned into her, causing her face to flush even before she'd taken her first step. His arms were awkwardly folded – he never seemed to know what to do with them now that he no longer needed the cane. Shaking her head, loosening her shoulders, she started down the path, determined.

Later, after she'd showered and changed back into her work clothes, he didn't glance at her once. His demeanor caused her to wonder if the encounter had been in her mind – running hallucinations? Did those exist?

The next day she made sure to bring a hairclip with her, eliminating the need for her to stop in the office. The day was slightly overcast, but, truth be told, she liked it better that way. Not even _she_ enjoyed endless sunshine. As she stepped out of the building, she felt the cool breeze, sucked in a lungful of crisp air.

"Where to?" The voice was, again, surprising. But something was different. It wasn't unexpected. It wasn't misplaced. It seemed almost…fitting. She turned to the left and had to suppress a smile at his outfit. She'd seen him in a tux, in his own version of "business attire," in a hospital gown – she'd even seen how he'd dressed to lounge around the one time she'd been to his place. But seeing him in gym shorts – long, covering – and a t-shirt with a big Nike swoosh on it nearly affected her more than all the rest.

She paused for the merest of moments. "The water." She cocked her head to the right. He nodded slowly, then gave her an expectant look. _After you_, it said. Taking another deep breath of the crackling air, she turned on her heel and headed for the path. He positioned himself accordingly beside her and, after a few more steps, they began to run.


End file.
